Winn-Dixie
by boys and girls look to the sky
Summary: 1961 - The world wants to know what's better, capitalism or communism? Alfred F. Jones finds a girl staring at apples in a supermarket and starts a conversation. Slightly based off of a true story.


"Hey, ya need some help there?"

Startled, she is dragged out her thoughts by the sudden presence of a young man by her side. Rebeka takes a step back, heart pounding, folding her arms back close to her body to make herself as small as possible. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you, I-"

He holds up a hand. His smile is kind, bright blue eyes shining behind his glasses and crinkling at the edges. "Whoa, whoa, it's fine, it's my fault if I scared you." He rocks back on his heels and disg his hands into his pockets, still grinning all the while. "See anything you like?"

Rebeka blinks. Is she understanding him correctly? Or is this just another American nuance she hasn't quite grabbed a hold of yet? "I beg your pardon?"

He nods his head towards the stand in front of her. "You've been staring at those apples for, like, fifteen minutes now. Just wanted to make sure you were okay, y'know."

_Oh._ That. She turns back to look at the produce in front of her, biting her lip. The colors fascinate her, the different kinds, their shiny textures, the way the light reflects off their skins, crisp and clear and delicious. Her fingers itch to touch one. "I'm fine, thank you."

They stay like that for a moment, stranger and girl, before he reaches around her to grab an apple from the top of the pile.

"I'm Alfred, by the way." Tosses it in the air, she watches it spin before coming to land in the stranger's palm. He winks and holds it out towards her. "What's your name?"

This supermarket (_is that the word?_) is suddenly much too quiet, she thinks. When she first came in she was struck by the loudness of it, the lights and bright colors and the music that played over her head. The rows upon rows of pretty packages, the enormity of it, the very picture of excess, made her jaw drop. The people and their carts, wandering amiably, chatting pleasantly. She had wandered through the isles as though lost, as though she had never seen such a thing before.

And she hasn't. Not ever in her life.

"Rebeka." She doesn't take the apple. Her mother always told her to be wary of strangers bearing gifts. Said the same thing about giving your name to strangers too, but perhaps the rules are different here. "Rebeka Almássy."

"Almássy, huh?" Alfred tries out her name in his mouth; it doesn't quite roll off his tongue the same way. She's suddenly aware of how strange it might sound. "You're not from around here, are ya? Let me guess, uh...Spain? No, France!"

"I'm Hungarian," she tells him, and _oh_, look at how the smile slowly drops from his face then and his hand drops down to his side. She's suddenly aware of his eyes wandering over her, taking in her neatly braided dark hair, her secondhand coat, her worn out shoes. What is he thinking now? "Is there a problem, Mr. Alfred?"

He shakes his head, and then suddenly that odd look is gone. "No, it's nothing. Hungary, huh? They've started letting people out? That's great!"

"No. I..." She bites her lip again. The words have disappeared. Rebeka is suddenly fascinated by the cold linoleum floor below her feet. She can almost see her reflection. "I left."

There is silence again.

She does not know why she is telling this stranger this. She does not know how the rules work in this country. They used to whisper about it back home - land of the free, land of opportunity, land of capitalism and crime. She had been surprised to find that the Party had been right about the American crime rates they announced back in Budapest. She's afraid to walk down the street at night in this foreign land when back in Hungary she could have stayed out all night. Had there been anything to do, that is.

_Land of the free, land of opp-ur-tu-nity...land of security, land of eq-ua-lity..._

"Where's your family?"

"Back home."

She left. No, that's not quite right. She escaped. Why did she leave? She's all alone here.

She's never seen apples quite like these.

Alfred tilts his head. Studies her again in quite the same way, but not in a way that makes her feel uncomfortable. There is something about this stranger that makes her almost want to trust him. Is it his friendliness? His seeming kindness? Everything is so strange and unfamiliar. She loves and hates it at the same time.

"Here."

He holds out the apple again.

"Am I allowed?"

"Of course you are." Alfred laughs. "Why else do you think they'd be on display? Just pick one out and I'll pay for it for ya."

She'd been wandering around, hours and hours, afraid to touch anything because how could something so beautiful be for someone like her? Surely she must have found herself in some closed-supply depot by accident. Surely everyone, with their carts and light laughter were higher Party members. Surely she didn't belong. She couldn't belong...

"Take it, seriously, Rebaka. It's a gift. From me."

He presses it into her hand before she can say another word. His hand is warm. The apple's skin is smooth. Her mouth is dry and maybe her eyes are starting to fill when she realizes what this means.

"Sir, I can't..."

"A gift," Alfred repeats, putting his hand on her shoulder and giving her another kind smile. "Think of it as a 'Welcome from America'." Another wink, and he begins to turn to walk away.

Rebeka stares down at the fruit in her hand, then back up again.

"Hey, wait-"

But just as soon as he appeared, the stranger is gone again.

She swallows the knot that has risen in her throat. The apple weighs down in her palm. It's one of the prettiest things she's ever seen.

* * *

><p><strong>Based off a true story my history teacher told a few weeks ago about a Hungarian woman he met who escaped the Eastern Bloc, came to America, and found herself in a supermarket. She was shocked, having never seen anything like before (she told him that most people got their food by going to warehouses where you'd turn in your coupons and get your allotted food; only special Party members could go to the closed-supply depots). The lights, the colors. She walked around for hours, afraid to touch anything, before she found a stand of apples. She had never seen so many kinds and colors.<strong>

**Also this was just a fun exercise I did because I had writer's block and was kind of in a Cold War mindset after watching a Killer Lady MMD and news reports from the fall of the Berlin Wall. I did very little research on this and the entire story is based on a secondhand source so I apologize for any inaccuracies. I do not own Hetalia.**

**Mischief Managed!**

**-Leila**


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